It's not me, it's her
I live in an apartment with my best beloved, Madame Migraine, atop the garage and a portion of the downstairs living quarters where my other daughter “Sylvie” reigns over her husband and two daughters. One of those daughters (my grandchild, Bee) is the current subject of Sylvie’s well-known obsessive tendencies, as Bee has difficulty holding still and focusing on subjects that bore her. Bee is five. So this evening, long after the grandbabies were asleep, I stood in Sylvie’s kitchen debating the various approaches to Bee when she is being “negative” (Sylvie’s word, not mine). I suggested Sylvie might try to deflect Bee’s negativity with a comment that serves to distract her, rather than counter or encourage negativity. She tried it, it worked, and she phoned me to let me know of her success—from downstairs, I have to add.
“Good,” says I—“Now go and watch TV with your husband and hold his hand.”
“We have to get some housecleaning done this evening,” she says.
“No. Sit on the couch and hold his and and watch TV,” say I, all goodnaturedly.
“I can’t stand having a messy house…”
“You are not going to look back on this time and think ‘I’m so glad I cleaned the house that night, instead of watching TV with Hercule and holding his hand.’”
“But it’s only for ten minutes…”
For the time being, she wins, I guess. I want to steep myself in the company of Madame M now, and watch several episodes of Lost.
